


Adventures in Eden Street

by OurPanBashir



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Based on a Tumblr Post, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Gen, Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), Human Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, if it gets that far, more to come - Freeform, this is such a silly idea but i love it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 13:47:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19929052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OurPanBashir/pseuds/OurPanBashir
Summary: (rating may change)Mr Fell and Mr Crowley are the complete opposite of eachother. They are also neighbours. Awkwardness ensues whenever they interact. These are the stories of Eden Street.





	Adventures in Eden Street

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TeaBeast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaBeast/gifts).



> This chapter is based on the tumblr post by dreamlogic https://dreamlogic.tumblr.com/post/185694226389/rip-rip-rip-i-can-never-interact-with-my-neighbor

Of all the terraced houses in Eden Street, two neighbouring residences stood out. Number 11 had its brickwork painted over in a duck egg blue, it’s cream windowpanes framing knick-knacks and clutter visible from the pavement. It’s small front garden was overgrown and poorly tended.

Next-door to number 11 was number 13, with exposed brickwork and black windowpanes. The only things that could be seen in the windows were potted flowers that looked so perfect, they could be entrants to the Chelsea Flower Show. The front garden of No. 13 was immaculate. Rose bushes lined the dilapidated fence on No. 11’s side, blocking out any sight of the wilderness next-door.

The residents of 11 and 13 Eden Street, on paper, seemed rather similar. Both were middle aged bachelors with jobs in the city, but in reality that was where their similarities ended.

Mr Fell, who lived in number 11, ran an independent bookshop in the city. He was a cheerful, talkative man if one got him onto the right subject, but tended to keep to himself. His appearance, if someone was asked to describe it, would politely be described as ‘cuddly’.

A cat with a similar size to Mr Fell lived with him at number 11. His name was Oscar Wilde, and Mr Fell was very fond of him. One summer morning, Mr Fell couldn’t find Oscar Wilde anywhere inside to give him his breakfast. Sighing, he opened his front door to check in the garden, where he spotted the bushy tail of Oscar Wilde slinking between the rose bushes that divided his garden with that of number 13.

“My scrumptious darling boy,” Mr Fell called loudly as he hurried after his cat, “what _ever_ are you doing over there?”

To Mr Fell’s horror, Oscar Wilde seemed to reply.

“Watering my…roses? You?” Came the terse, yet understandably confused voice from behind the rose bushes. Before Mr Fell could respond, the face of his slender and _unfairly_ attractive neighbour, Mr Crowley, appeared between the rose bushes. His expression contorted from confusion to horror as Oscar Wilde, unaware of his human’s humiliation, had begun rubbing against Mr Crowley’s legs.

“Oscar Wilde, stop that!” Mr Fell exclaimed, crouching down and reaching through one of the many holes in the fence to grab the furry menace and pull him back towards him. Cradling the cat in his arms, Mr Fell stood again and grimaced at Mr Crowley, still blushing.

“I’m so terribly sorry, I was talking to my cat and I didn’t realise you were there. I wasn’t uh. I didn’t mean to call _you_ my scrumptious-“

“It’s quite alright.” Mr Crowley cut in, not especially keen on hearing the phrase again. If he was honest, it was quite entertaining seeing his neighbour so flustered. They had never met before this unfortunate encounter, but the man was exactly what Mr Crowley expected of his neighbour, considering the sickeningly gaudy exterior of his house, and the unkempt appearance of his garden.

“The name’s Fell.” Mr Fell introduced, shifting a rather unhappy Oscar Wilde into one arm before sticking his free hand between the rose bushes towards Mr Crowley.

“Crowley.” The other replied, setting down his watering can a moment before taking Mr Fell’s hand and shaking it briefly.

“Right. Um, this is Oscar Wilde, my cat, named after the author…” Mr Fell began, before Mr Crowley cut him off again.

“Yes. Well, I must be going.” He said bluntly, before turning and walking back towards his front door.

“Oh.” Mr Fell sighed, wincing at the sudden slam of the door to number 13. “Well, Mr Wilde, I don’t think I can ever speak with our neighbour ever again. Not that I’d want to, of course.” He murmured, turning and heading back to the house. “Now, shall we see about fetching you some breakfast?”


End file.
